


(now that you're home) won't you rescue me?

by mr_charles



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Jon-centric introspection, Marriage of Convenience, Past Abuse, Past Character Death, R plus L equals J, mention of consensual sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-20 00:25:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7383556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mr_charles/pseuds/mr_charles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>when Sansa worries that she'll be married off again and be forced to leave Winterfell, Jon offers to make her Lady St- er, Targaryen. when Queen Daenerys wants a child, things get complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(now that you're home) won't you rescue me?

**Author's Note:**

> this started as an angsty comparison of Sansa and Ygritte and then I wanted to write a wedding and then Tyrion showed up and I was like what they hey, let's get crazy

It’s pretty telling that red and black are the only two colors Jon sees. Since the truth comes out about his parentage, it’s a miracle that the strong Northern blood of Lyanna Stark watered down the fire of Rheagar’s blood.

Fath— _Ned_ rarely talked about his dead sister. Said she was willful and beautiful and that’s all Jon knew. He knows not what Targaryen traits flow through his veins. He had always heard they were mad and inbred. 

For the longest time at the Wall, all Jon saw were the Stark colors- grey and white. The white of the snows diluted Castle Black into nothing but grey bricks. And then one day, red came back into his life

Ygritte had been fire and warmth- furs and fires and sweat. Sansa was cold- frozen blood splashed into snow. HIs memories of Sansa were dull now, nothing more than her cold shoulders and mimicry of Catelyn’s cold stare. 

Sansa’s red hair clashes with the dark of her dress and cloak, the darkness under her sunken eyes. She says little about the Bolton bastard, instead focusing on battle plans and the reclaiming of Winterfell. 

Brienne, that just splash of gold, refuses to elaborate when Jon asks her. 

“I swore loyalty to her,” she says, shaking her head. 

 

Jon imagine Sansa sees the world through a Targaryen lens of fire and blood. He can see the gears of revenge turning and twisting in her mind. If her steely look of determination wasn’t the same as it was when she was just a child, he would be afraid. But when she furrows her brows and signs heavily, Jon is reminding of the septa teaching her needlepoint as a girl and how determined she was to excel at it. 

Excel she did for Jon concludes he will never run out of shirts or cloaks at the rate Sansa sews. He figures it’s the only thing she has control over. 

 

They crown him King of the North after Sansa tosses Ramsay to the dogs. He notices her shoulders are lighter, her eyes brighter. She’s still weighed down by the heavy black of her woolen clothing but she holds herself as a free woman. Black and red, she is. The northern sun pales her and her hair looks more like a wound than anything. Her braids are simple and nothing like the elaborate Southern twists she used to do. With a heavy heart, Jon realizes Sansa deserves sun and warmth and a gaggle of ladies to preen over her. Instead all she has is Brienne, who’s more knight than proper lady. 

 

Six months go by with Jon as the Northern King when a letter comes. There’s no seal and it’s only addressed to “Lady Stark”. 

“Oh, thank you Gods,” Sansa sighs as she reads it. A letter of annulment from Tyrion Lannister, freeing her from their marriage under the grounds that it was not valid. _There was no consummation,_ Tyrion writes, _so I must free Lady Sansa from the obligations of our marriage. I wish her the best_.

But a flicker passes over Sansa’s face. When Jon inquires, Sansa hurriedly says it’s nothing before tucking the letter away. Winter has come and even though Sansa’s rooms are those of her mother’s, the ones with the hot springs pumped into the walls, it’s still chilled and Sansa pulls her cloak tighter around her shoulders. 

 

Another three months pass. Every raven that arrives makes Sansa hold her breath until Jon reads it and passes it off to someone else. 

“Is everything alright?” Jon asks after Sansa demands to know the contents of a letter from the Vale.

Sansa straightens her shoulders, so composed and proper. “I am no longer Lady Bolton. Nor am I Lady Lannister.”

“Yes,” Jon agrees. “You’re now Lady Stark again.”

“But for _how long,_ Jon?” she says fretfully. Before Jon can reply, she sighs. “I worry now that every man from the Red Keep to the Vale is going to be writing you for me. The Northern King’s sis— _cousin_.”

“I’ll marry you.” The words are out before Jon can think. “I’ll do it.”

 

The wedding is a small affair, held two months later. There are not enough Starks left for it to be a joyous affair but Jon doesn’t mind. The most surprising guest is Tyrion, come all the way from the South just for the wedding. Neither Jon nor Sansa invited him but he brings wine and gifts and even a smile. 

“Lady Stark, Lady Lannister, Lady Bolton, and now Lady Targaryen,” Tyrion smiles over his goblet. “Sansa, my dear, you hold more titles than our Dragon Queen.”

Sansa flushes, a gentle pink complimenting the whites of her gown and the gems (a gift from Tyrion) pinned in her hair.

 

Red and black, the cloak the Jon pins on Sansa’s shoulders. He tells her she is safe under his protection. He means every word of it. She is his blood and his family. Together they are Targaryens. Together they are Starks.

Their kiss is chaste and Jon wants nothing more than to shoo these guests out of their home so Sansa may relax.

 

Their gifts are practical. Servants and silver from the Mormonts. Furs from the Wildings for Sansa and a collection of small knives for Jon, delicately carved from dragonglass. Tyrion bring a trunk full of the finest fabrics from Dorne to Yi Ti, thick leather-bound books on everything from tales for children to predictions of the future, and enough wine to keep every man at the Wall drunk until Winter ends.

Perhaps the most practical gift of all is that of handmaidens for Sansa. Baelish brings nothing with him except a gaggle of young women with him, all dark eyed beauties in plain country dresses. He says they are here to serve the Queen of the North as he casts a glance at Jon. 

“And the King,” he says cooly.

Sansa thanks him gratefully for his gifts and his kiss to her hand lasts a little too long.

 

There is no bedding ceremony. There is no wedding night. Jon walks Sansa to her chambers, calls her his Lady, and hopes she sleeps well.

“I may say the same to you, My Lord,” she smiles.

 

They fall into an easy routine. Jon acts as a mediator between the Wildings and the rest of the Northern peoples. Letters come from Queen Daenerys, inquiring about the safety and stability of her Northern kingdom. Tyrion, reinstated as Hand of the Queen, sends his best and asks to come visit before the snows get worse. 

Sansa is better at diplomacy than Jon would have ever thought. She keeps her ladies under control and always has a warm cup of ale and cakes for any weary traveler looking for shelter for the night or two. For all she has been through, she is still a Lady and her presence in Winterfell is just as strong as her mother’s was.

 

A year into their marriage, Queen Daenerys visits. It’s a grand affair— neither Jon nor Sansa get much sleep in the week leading up to things. Sansa’s braids, redone in the Northern style, are frazzled as she frets and has what little servants they have dust everything twice.

“I hear she flies everywhere _on a dragon_!” Sansa says incredulously to Jon at supper the night before.

“Well, let’s hope the stables have enough room for one, then,” Jon teases. 

A decidedly unladylike snort sneaks out of his wife and something grips Jon’s heart. 

 

“Good Gods, it is cold up here,” is all Daenerys says as she steps out of her carriage. She pulls her thick furs tighter around her shoulders and grimaces. Jon has heard about her time with the Dothraki and thinks she much prefers the dry humidity of their travels to the bitter cold of Winterfell.

“My Queen,” Jon says, bowing deeply. She holds out a pale hand, covered in gems and jewels. He kisses it as Sansa bows. 

“Cousins,” she says kindly. “Come, let us find a fire. I hope you have one or two around here.”

 

All that Southern dignity and the Queen of Westeros still eats with her hands. 

“To what do we owe the nature of your…visit, Your Grace?” Sansa says delicately. Jon sees the slight crinkle of her nose as their Queen tears into a roast duck with her jeweled hands. 

“My request is simple,” she says, wiping her greasy fingers on a linen napkin. “I can bear no children. To keep the rightful Targaryen claim to the throne, I need an heir.”

Sansa grips Jon’s hand and briefly he fears he’ll be sent to the South with Daenerys. 

“You two,” she says, “have been married for over a year but have yet to produce a child. In fact, the whispers say you’ve yet to share a bed.”

Sansa flushes. Jon clears his throat.

“The whispers lie, Your Grace. My Lady, she suffers from a variety of issues affecting her cycle. But if our Queen demands a child, we shall try our best.”

Daenerys smiles. Sansa’s grip on his hand might shatter the delicate bones beneath. 

 

Late at night, long after the moon rises and everyone is in bed, Sansa bursts into Jon’s room. 

“Why did you say that?!” she demands. “If she ‘demands’ our child, we’ll give her one? You might as well have let her watch us try, Jon!” Her face is pale and streaked with tears.

“Sansa,” he says quietly. He fears her outburst may have awoken someone. “She knows not what your doctor may say. We can always tell her that—“

“Tell her what? That Ramsay destroyed me inside and out? We might as well! It’s not a lie, _My Lord_!”

“Sansa,” he starts to say but she’s already slammed the door shut behind her.

 

The Queen only stays for a few nights. Sansa is more than capable of putting on her Queen of the North smile and acting like everything is going well. 

“Remember your duty,” is all Daenerys says as she departs. Sansa and Jon both bow and she’s off.

 

A month passes. 

“I want a child,” Sansa says as they break their fast one morning. “And can you pass the pomegranate jam that Lord Arryn sent us?”

“I beg your pardon, My Lady?”

“A child,” Sansa says, speaking to him as if he was one, delicately spreading the deep red jam on a scone. “Queen Daenerys was right. We have been married for over a year.”

“A-are you sure?”

“The Starks are numbered, My Lord,” she says pointedly. “So are the Targaryens.”

 

Jon is nothing but gentle. If their passion is limited, the least he can do is be kind with Sansa. The candles are blown out and both still wear their sleep-clothes. Afterwards, Sansa awkwardly kisses his cheek before she rises from his bed and returns to her own chambers. 

It takes three more tries before a swell rises from under Sansa’s heavy Northern dresses. 

 

The word spreads quickly and Jon suspects it is one of Sansa’s less than proper handmaidens who tells the world about it, for one day Sansa sees her with a necklace on that is well above her station, heavy with emeralds and a variety of other stones.

“That is a beautiful necklace you have on, Myra,” Sansa notices as they work on their needlepoint. “Wherever did you get it?”

“A gift,” Myra blushes, “from Lord Baelish.”

“Hmm, yes,” Sansa says offhandedly. “I wonder what could possibly warrant such a gift.”

The girl’s smile drops. 

 

It’s a girl, a small squalling thing that pushes her way out in the early morning months later. 

“My Lady,” the doctor says, a hint of disappointment in his voice, “you have a daughter.”

Sansa wails as she cradles their daughter to her sweaty breast. “My daughter.”

A darling thing with spots of dark hair and eyes more purple than grey. Sansa sobs as she holds her, wrapped in linen sheets. 

 

Jon isn’t allowed to see either one of them for weeks, in case of birthing fever. Finally one of Sansa’s ladies allows him into her room.

“Please hand me my daughter, Joanna,” he hears Sansa say to the wet nurse.

“My Lady, it is time for her—“

“Joanna, may I have a moment with My Lady?”

The wet nurse passes the bundle to Sansa on her hurried way out of the room. 

“Have you decided on a name?” Jon asks as Sansa coos to the child.

“Well, according to Joanna, she is a very stubborn child,” Sansa says with a hint of amusement. “Never sleeps when she should. Is hungry when she shouldn’t be. And I was thinking what stubborn child she reminded me of—“

“Arya?”

Sansa’s smile is bittersweet but she nods. “Is that okay with you, My Lord?”

Jon smiles. “It’s perfect. She’s perfect.”

“The Queen won’t be happy,” Sansa notes. “Her only heir produced a daughter.”

“This isn’t the Queen’s family,” Jon says. “It’s our family.”

**Author's Note:**

> un-beta'd. mistakes are mine. have fun.


End file.
